It was July—the height of summer—and the heat hung over the country roads like a dense, almost tangible veil. Dust, raised by the rare passing cars, did not settle for hours; it drifted in the air like a golden haze, trembling in the stillness.
Even the open windows of the old “Moskvich” offered no relief: a hot wind pressed into their faces, carrying the scent of dried wormwood and sunburnt clover.
Dmitry Romanovich Veresov—a strong, slightly stooped man with sun-bleached hair—carefully guided the car along the uneven road, constantly steering around potholes.
From time to time, he glanced at his wife sitting beside him, her hands resting protectively on her large, already noticeably lowered belly.
“Does it shake too much?” he asked for the umpteenth time, slowing down before a particularly rough stretch. “This road is pure punishment. They’ve been promising to pave the way to Zaozernoye for years… and nothing changes.”
Elena, a quiet fair-haired woman with gentle grey eyes, gave a tired but peaceful smile.
“It’s fine. I’m used to it, Mitya. With Roma, I was out in the fields behind the combine right up until the last day. And now I’m sitting on soft cushions—that’s almost luxury.”
“Still…” Dmitry muttered, pushing his cap back. “I can’t feel calm about it. This heat is enough to make anyone feel unwell, and you’re carrying all this…”
They passed through a birch grove, and suddenly the village of Svetloye opened before them—scattered houses along the lake, silvery water, deep green gardens and orchards. Elena sighed and rested her hand on her belly.
“Stop worrying so much, Mitya. Old Varvara from Zalesye told me yesterday: ‘Your face is blooming like a poppy—when a mother becomes more beautiful, she’s carrying a girl.’ Aunt Raisa from the post office said the same. She’s never been wrong.”
Dmitry pressed the gas a little harder. For weeks, the entire household had been talking about a daughter. After two sons—Roman and Grigory—Elena had longed for a girl. And somehow that hope had spread through the house and even the village like a quiet spell.
“A daughter wouldn’t be bad,” he said dreamily. “I’d teach her to ride a bicycle…”
“You taught the boys too.”
“With boys it’s different… they learn on their own. But a daughter…” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “with a daughter, I’d be gentler.”
When they arrived, the two boys ran out into the yard. Roman, eleven, already tall and sun-darkened, and little Grisha, eight, blond and freckled, bursting with energy.
“Dad! What did you bring?”
They rushed to the car, laughing. Elena slowly made her way inside, leaning on her husband.
In the evening, they sat under the apple tree. The lake lay smooth as glass, reflecting the first stars. Elena spoke softly about the future: a daughter she would teach to sew, sing old songs with, dry apples together.
Dmitry nodded: “It will be a girl.”
But that night he could not sleep. Something unsettled him—a heavy, unclear anxiety. A third child meant responsibility. Times were uncertain, work unstable. But he said nothing aloud.
Nine days later, the labor began. Dmitry rushed her to the hospital and waited for hours. Finally, the midwife came out.
“Congratulations. A healthy baby boy.”
Dmitry froze.
“A boy?”
The image he had carefully built in his mind collapsed in an instant.
The next day he brought Elena and the baby home. She was exhausted, but happy—without disappointment. They named the boy Stepan.
But inside Dmitry remained a strange emptiness.
One night, it broke out of him:
“Maybe we shouldn’t have had a third child…”
Elena sat up.
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought it would be a girl… everything pointed to it.”
“And now you’re disappointed in your son?”
Her voice was calm, but sharp.
That night, Elena took the baby and went to her parents’ house.
Dmitry was left alone.
The next day, he began working with his father-in-law, Afanasy Petrovich, an old beekeeper—quiet, authoritative, and deeply wise.
“You’ve been clinging too much to expectations,” he said. “Your son is not at fault for anything.”
Those words struck deeper than any accusation.
From then on, Dmitry worked daily with his sons rebuilding the roof of an old barn. Slowly, something inside him began to shift. The work was hard, precise, honest. Wood was measured, fitted, repaired. So was something in their family.
Elena watched. She said little, but her gaze softened.
When the roof was finished, Dmitry simply said:
“I was wrong.”
And for the first time, he truly held his son in his arms.
“I won’t let you go again,” he whispered.
Years passed. Stepan grew into a strong, thoughtful boy. The old conflict faded into silence. Only sometimes did he ask:
“Dad, is it true you didn’t want me?”
Dmitry lifted him onto his lap.
“Who told you that nonsense? You are my son. My pride.”
And that evening, he told a story—not about expectations or disappointment, but about how a man learns to love what life actually gives him.
And in the warm light of the house, that story became the truest one of all.
